No Word of Farewell
by ThePreciousHeart
Summary: Llewyn didn't realize how much his partner had meant to him until it was too late. Scenes from Llewyn & Mike's life together, before it ended in tragedy.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This work was originally posted as "Tell Me Who You Love." It was my first fic for this fandom and I hadn't really gotten a good grasp on the characters and who they are, so I went back and made a lot of edits, and now it's "No Word of Farewell."**

 **I was not existent in the 50's/60's and I am not gay, bisexual, or male, so if I portrayed anything incorrectly or offensively please let me know how I can rectify this.**

 **Content warnings include: canon-typical strong language (including one homophobic slur), alcohol use, implicit sex, vomiting/sickness, and references to suicide/death.**

 _Blinding beams of light spill across the stage, glinting off the microphone stands and rippling along each string of Llewyn's guitar. Though the spotlight obscures his vision, he smiles aimlessly- not for the audience, in a forced display of showmanship, but for the wholly nonsensical joy that's growing inside him, drowning out all else. It's been so long… or rather, it FEELS like it's been so long… that he's surprised he still recognizes the emotion._

 _"Thank you," his partner tells the audience, with his familiar sense of almost-embarrassing earnestness. Anyone else would sound like a phony, but Llewyn has known from day one that Mike really means every word._

 _"Thank you all for coming out to see us." Mike pulls his guitar off from over his head and clutches it by the neck. "I'm Mike Timlin and this is Llewyn Davis. Together, we're Timlin and Davis."_

 _Upon being introduced, Llewyn gives a halfhearted, "what the hell" wave, but his mind is focused on his partner's speech. Already the excitement is nipping at him, the hairs standing up on his arms. The last number is always a knockout, leaving spellbound every patron of the Gaslight. If it wasn't for this part of the show, he wouldn't even return to this joke of a venue. But every time they play, more and more come to listen, and it's enough to keep him going. Enough for him to fall deeper and deeper in love with the experience._

 _Mike dips out of sight, avoiding the spotlight's watchful eye, to hand off his guitar to someone at the foot of the stage. After a brief exchange, he pops up again, clutching his mandolin. An anticipatory shiver runs up Llewyn's spine._

 _"For our last number," his partner says, "we're going to send you home with an old song. A good song. A love song."_

 _He nods, but Llewyn doesn't need to look at him to know when to begin. The notes trickle from his fingers, filling the air with the kind of sweet intimacy that hushes voices and takes breath away. He closes his eyes and sinks into the music, his partner's voice winding around his._

 _"If I had wings like Noah's dove, I'd fly up the river to the one I love. Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well."_

* * *

Mike Timlin was the most gregarious person Llewyn had ever known, who'd never touched a drop of alcohol.

Of course, there was no way to _confirm_ this. It was only to the best of Llewyn's knowledge that Mike was a total teetotaler. He hadn't known Mike until the tail end of Mike's college days, when the prime time for any possible alcoholic exploits had already passed. And at first he couldn't be sure whether or not Mike _did_ drink. Maybe he snuck sips from a well-hidden flask before a show, or maybe he'd boldly nursed a beer right in front of Llewyn, sometime when Llewyn was too bogged into his cups to see straight.

However, Llewyn couldn't remember ever having seen him with a drink in hand, and if he didn't remember it, he doubted it had happened. It was a little strange, if he stopped to contemplate Mike's behavior. Mike could sit at the bar for hours after a show, telling story after story with more finesse than Llewyn could ever handle. He'd fire off every joke under the sun, garnering laughs with even the oldest chestnuts. And through it all he'd stay sober, though he'd offer to pay for the next round and the next, even when Llewyn gave him a nudge. "Hey, Mikey, go easy. You've gotta pay the rent _somehow."_

"And who's helping with that?" Mike shot back at one point, not long after Llewyn moved back in, for good this time. He stuck his chin in the air, an unbelievably wide grin on his face. "If I'm goin' down, I'm taking you with me!"

Often Llewyn let Mike handle all the socializing when they were out in a big group, or as big a group as it ever got- Jim and Jean and Beth and Sam and even Anton sometimes, if he was up for it. Mike habitually placed himself at the center of attention, while Llewyn sat quietly and soaked up the vibes. The arrangement caused no hard feelings, for Mike had always possessed a certain adeptness at conversation. While Llewyn found it hard to emerge from a song at the end of a performance, Mike was able to change rapidly from introspective singer to quick-talking charmer, as if shedding his skin. That was another aspect of Mike that constantly left Llewyn puzzling. _How does he pull it off?_ What made Llewyn's masquerade so transparent, while Mike's transformation was downright flawless?

Even with his attention diverted, Llewyn always knew when Mike was coming because no one else in the world had a voice as vibrant as his. "Llewyn!" he would boom, traipsing over to clap his hands on Llewyn's shoulders and pull him in. "Got any room at the table for one more? I'm fuckin' beat."

"Yeah, here ya go," Llewyn would say, pulling up the nearest empty chair. "You should learn to watch your language, Mikey. Gotta preserve that clean-cut choir boy image."

"Aw, shut your mouth, Llew." Settling into his seat, Mike paused to flick Llewyn behind the ear. "Show's over. I'm off-duty now."

Llewyn flicked Mike right back, the upturned corners of his mouth belying the dourness in his eyes. In a group setting, Llewyn always made an effort not to sit too close to Mike, or laugh too much… but _damn_ , it was hard not to lean into the warmth Mike radiated. To absorb the energy that had drawn him to Mike since the day they stumbled across each other in Washington Square Park. Fortunately, the rapt faces around the table often proved that Llewyn wasn't alone in his desire.

Few dared to be as tactile with Llewyn as Mike. Any other person to grab him unexpectedly came close to receiving a smack, or at least a threat. But when Mike came up behind him to clap him on the shoulder, or gave his arm a friendly punch, or spontaneously threw his arms around him, Llewyn didn't just tolerate it- he found himself appreciating it.

"I don't get it, Llewyn," Jean had sighed, one night after Mike had wandered away to the nearest restroom. "About you and Mike."

"What about me and Mike?" Llewyn casually replied, one eye focused on balancing someone's unused fork across the rim of his empty glass.

"You actually _like_ it when he touches you," Jean declared. "He's the only guy who can get away with doing that. Shit, he's the only _person._ I've never seen any of your girlfriends hang all over you the way Mike does."

"Except for Lydia," Llewyn was quick to point out.

Jean shuddered. " _Lydia!_ God, I could yak in my mouth just thinking about her. Remind me never again to accept an invitation from you when you've got a date in tow."

Llewyn shrugged, his eyebrows rising. The fork tumbled into his glass, effectively eliminating his distraction.

"What, didn't enjoy the show?"

"The one onstage, yes." Jean gulped down the rest of her beer. "The one you tried to put on right in front of me, _no."_

 _Good thing you didn't stick around for the encore,_ thought Llewyn. He glanced over to the end of the bar, watching the light sparkle off half-empty glasses that an earlier group had abandoned upon leaving. He could have ribbed Jean further with the statement, but even implications struck him as a little too kiss-and-tell. Unlike many other patrons who frequented these dives, Llewyn was reluctant to spill sex stories. _None of their business. Nothing interesting about it._

"Seriously," Jean continued after a moment's pause, with a hint of curiosity in her voice that set Llewyn on edge. "What _is_ it with you two? You get the biggest smile on your face whenever he's hanging with us. It's never the same when it's just you and me."

"Well… he's my partner," Llewyn responded automatically. "We make music together. I dunno what else to say, Jean. I mean, you get to know a person that way, you can't help liking him a little."

Jean snickered in amusement. "Of course. Why do you think I married Jim?" She knocked back the rest of her drink, and thankfully did not question Llewyn further.


	2. Chapter 2

_They've run through the harmonies so many times together that Llewyn doesn't need to concentrate too hard on his performance. Each note matches his partner's perfectly, their voices blending into a woven tapestry._

 _"I had a man, he was long and tall. He moved his body like a cannon ball. Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well."_

 _This is Mike's favorite verse, and he's made no secret about it. Even the first time they jammed together, he'd insisted on singing the right words. "It's about being true to the original lyricist," he'd said as he re-tuned his guitar. "Whoever that was. I'm not just going to tailor the words to fit the situation."_

 _But then again, that's Mike- treating each song as reverently as a prayer. The original line even found its way on the record, for all the world to hear. At the time, the double meaning wasn't apparent._

* * *

Maneuvering his way into the apartment with his arms full of groceries was always a difficult feat. Especially when the bottom had fallen out of one of the bags. Fortunately, it wasn't the one with milk in it, but Llewyn would rather not have _any_ foodstuffs hit the floor. Rather than make a halfhearted attempt at fishing out his key, he banged on the door with his foot.

"Hey, Mikey. It's Llewyn. Open up."

He managed to step back, his arms wobbling with the effort of carrying the groceries up the stairs, and waited for Mike to show up. However, after several long seconds, the strain was too much.

"Mike! Come on, open the door. I got my hands full…"

Still nothing. Was Mike in the bathroom? The bedroom? Sighing heavily, Llewyn waited a few seconds longer than previously, before banging the door again- only for Mike to open it. Startled, Llewyn stumbled forward, just barely managing to avoid kicking Mike in the shin.

"Thanks," he muttered, heading straight for the cluttered kitchen table. The moment he reached it, he set down the defective bag, spilling its bounty for all to see.

"Fuckin' bag broke," Llewyn said, half to himself. He leaned against the table, allowing the cramped muscles in his arms to relax. "The cashier must have overstocked it. Not like he could have just, I don't know, used another bag instead of crammin' everything into…"

He trailed off as he realized Mike wasn't listening to him. Instead he stood silently by the door, as if greeting an invisible guest, though his eyes were cast downwards.

Llewyn cleared his throat. "Hey Mikey. Penny for your thoughts?"

Slowly Mike turned away from the door, shaking himself out of his stupor. "Nah, not putting my thoughts on sale."

Llewyn shrugged. "Well don't get too hung up on 'em, okay? You'll probably need those brain cells later."

The joke elicited no response, so Llewyn opened the fridge and began to restock, rotating out the slivers of butter and the empty carton of orange juice that had been stuck back inside the fridge for no reason. Shopping for two was tough- not that Mike had any particular food preferences, but it was hard to keep even portions in mind. Had Llewyn lived alone, he would have shelled out for the bare minimum, but one of the agreements he'd made in order to room with Mike again was to pitch in on the cost of living- which included groceries. And Mike was more conscientious in his eating habits. _No wonder he's got a good couple inches on me…_

An unusual, uncomfortable stillness befell the apartment as Llewyn worked. He glanced over to see Mike resting in the beat-up easy chair he'd rescued from the side of the street. His feet were on the coffee table, its surface scuffed from the various shoes that had lain upon it over the years, and his eyes were fastened to the record collection. Most of it was Mike's, all the stuff he had brought with him from Long Island, but a couple were Llewyn's- the Carter Family album he'd bought with his first allowance, and numerous records palmed off on him by musical acts passing through the Village.

Llewyn finished with the fridge and spent a careful amount of time pretending to inspect its exterior, before announcing, "Anything wrong?"

"What?" Mike glanced towards Llewyn in confusion. It was times like these that Mike's duality really struck Llewyn. Out in public, he was the center of attention, constantly in motion. All eyes instantly drew to him. But back here at the apartment, when it was just him and Llewyn, Mike was thoughtful, quieter. Though that didn't mean he wasn't quick-witted in his responses, or that he was reluctant to call bullshit on anything Llewyn said. Llewyn couldn't help but wonder if he was like this one-on-one with anyone, or if he only cared to share this side of himself with Llewyn.

When Mike met Llewyn's eyes, Llewyn noticed… something. A sudden flash of emotion, a chink in his friend's armor. Mike looked like he wasn't sure what he was doing. But just as quickly as Llewyn spotted it, the emotion was gone, and Llewyn shook his head. "Never mind." _Probably imagining things._

His work done, Llewyn ambled over to the couch and sat down, opening his guitar case at his feet. For a while he fiddled aimlessly with the instrument, first running a couple of scales just to exercise his fingers, and then strumming chords. Every now and then he'd find himself working on a chord progression that sounded unique, one that didn't come from one of the many old songs he'd spent years perfecting. However, composition was an art Llewyn lacked, and wasn't keen on possessing. What was the point in crafting a new song, when so much had already been said before, with more skill than any up-and-coming songwriter could ever hope for?

Mike could probably do it, Llewyn reflected as he settled into the familiar rhythm of "Green Rocky Road." NYU wasn't exactly a conservatory, but Mike's mastery of multiple instruments and grasp of theory showed that their music department hadn't skimped out. Sometimes, if Llewyn dwelled on the fact, he found himself wondering why Mike chose to put up with the Village and the folk circuit, playing basket houses for a sum so meager it hardly justified the struggle to get on the bill. And considering the journalism degree he'd never finished, one had to wonder why he bothered with music at all.

Llewyn didn't need to ask, though, because he knew Mike. Without music, Mike wouldn't just be creatively stifled. Music was the blood in his veins, a love greater than any superficial romance. Depriving Mike of it would be torture.

"Green, green rocky road," Llewyn murmured, in a voice so hushed he doubted Mike could hear him. _If he's even listening._ "You promenade in green…"

He eyed Mike surreptitiously, and felt a smidgen of disappointment when he realized Mike had turned inward, losing himself to his thoughts. The depth of Mike's thoughts was always easy to discern based on how little he was moving. Now, he sat absolutely motionless, a living sculpture.

"Tell me who you love, tell me who you love…"

It wasn't a song they'd recorded together, but Mike had heard Llewyn play it enough times to memorize it. But for once, he didn't join in. After a couple of bars, Llewyn dropped the song and began to work on another- Mike's own arrangement of "The Parting Glass," which he intended as their album closer. Llewyn found himself keeping a close ear on Mike, half-expecting him to come in on the verse like usual. Many of their practice sessions were just as spur-as-the-moment; it wouldn't have surprised him.

But Mike remained silent. _Odd_.

Maybe something _was_ wrong.

Abruptly Llewyn switched from careful, precise picking, to strumming basic chords with an unpleasantly metallic twang. "Found a peanut, found a peanut, found a peanut yesterday. Yesterday I found a peanut, found a peanut yesterday." His voice grew brazen and off-key as he practically smacked the guitar. "Cracked it open, cracked it open, _cracked it ooooopen_ yesterday. Yesterday I-"

"Would you _shut up,_ Llew?" Mike suddenly snapped, coming to life with an instant glare.

Llewyn angled his eyebrows upwards. _Why so testy?_ He'd wanted to bug Mike, if only to get his attention, but not _that_ badly.

"Yeah, okay." Reluctantly Llewyn laid the guitar down, nestling it inside its bed of faux velvet. As he stood up, stretching, Mike sighed. It wasn't necessarily an _unhappy_ sigh, but it sounded so _off._ So atypical. So much that it was impossible to ignore. _What is he moping about?_

"You- you got something to tell me?" Llewyn blurted, gesturing to Mike. "Anything to get off your chest?"

"I- no." Mike blinked, sounding genuinely surprised that Llewyn was even asking. _God, I wish he wasn't so easy to read._ "No, I'm fine. I just… I'd like some quiet, okay? Can't hear myself think when you're playing." He smiled, obviously aiming for apologetic, but the smile was off too, tinged with something that Llewyn couldn't decipher.

Llewyn shrugged, but decided not to press Mike any further. Sometimes, not _often_ but sometimes, Mike became unresponsive for no apparent reason, and Llewyn had learned to give him space. He couldn't blame him, having to spend so much time with another person. Privacy was a constant struggle for those who not only lived, but worked together. _Which, among other things, is probably why it didn't work out the first time._

Though Llewyn, on the other hand, rarely found himself tiring of Mike's company. _Guess Jean was right. No one else's gotten that close._ Except maybe Diane… but _that_ was a different story. Briefly Llewyn wondered how the relationship appeared to strangers, at the shows and on the streets. Were they just as baffled as Jean, or did they even bat an eye?

Well, it wouldn't do him any good to overthink it. Leaving Mike to his contemplation, Llewyn padded over to the newly-stocked fridge. _Perfect timing-_ he'd just gotten home, and already the first pangs of hunger were rolling through him. Tonight was his turn to make dinner- another one of the agreements he'd established with Mike. It was the one he enjoyed the least, given his lack of cooking prowess, but he figured he'd better do it now lest he further piss Mike off.

Dinner was quiet, but that could hardly be helped, seeing as the chicken casserole turned out to be one of Llewyn's more successful attempts. His plate was clean by the time Mike spoke at last, his voice flat.

"The record's not going to do well."

"What?" Taken by surprise, Llewyn stared blank-faced at his friend. "You mean _our_ record?"

"Does anyone know who we _are,_ Llewyn?" Mike said, his words implicitly confirming his meaning. "I mean, outside the Gaslight, the Café Wha, all those places we've played. We know our friends are going to buy it, but when you add it all up…"

Llewyn set down his fork, trying to dispel his growing unease. It had been a while since Mike last exposed his insecurities. Not since Llewyn had come back, come to think of it. _Thought you'd gotten over this..._ or was that _hoped?_

"Okay, first of all, our friends are getting copies whether they want them or not. Second of all… who says it won't sell? It's _good music,_ Mike. _You_ know how good it is." To emphasize the point, Llewyn tapped the table. "Publicity isn't everything when it comes to these things. We play a few shows, mention the record often enough, get people interested. If they like what they see, they'll buy it. Why wouldn't they?"

Mike furrowed his brow, seemingly unconvinced. "But why _would_ they? Just think about how many acts we know, and compare that to the names on the hit parade. Proportionately, the nation's seeing only a tiny bit of what's out there. If we don't market our music properly, they're going to pass us over."

 _Market? The whole nation?_ The implication filled Llewyn with disgust. _Swear to God, if the next words out of his mouth include "more commercial…"_ Fame wasn't the point of making music. It never had been. Not for Llewyn, and- until now, apparently- not for Mike.

Hoping to dismiss the notion, Llewyn shook his head. "We're not _musical whores,_ Mikey. We don't need to change ourselves just to sell records. And really, who gives a fuck how many we sell anyway? Just having an _audience_ is enough. I don't know about you, but that sure is good enough for me."

Mike lowered his eyes to the table and began to pick at his food. "Sorry, Llewyn. I'm just trying to be realistic."

"Well, fuck realism." _What's gotten into him?_ Up to this point, Mike had been fairly gung-ho about the upcoming record, corralling Llewyn into the studio when needed and supervising each session as if he were the de facto producer. _Something's DEFINITELY wrong._ Mike was rarely, if ever, this shaken.

"C'mon, what are you worried about?" Llewyn hoped the softness of his voice was enough to disguise the sharp edge of his curiosity. "The sales? The songs? Not getting enough exposure? _Talk_ to me, Mikey."

Mike only shrugged, his gaze still fixed to the table, and popped a forkful of chicken into his mouth. Strange how reticent a guy like him could be, choosing the most inconsistent times to retreat into a brick wall. Well, tonight Llewyn refused to take it. He'd been too unobservant in the past, and it had nearly driven him and Mike apart. _Never again._

Then the thought struck him. "You didn't talk with your mother, did ya?"

Mike's eyes flashed up to Llewyn's face, his shoulders stiffening. Immediately Llewyn's heart plummeted. "Oh God, so _that's_ what all this is about?"

Mike fidgeted aimlessly with the fork between his fingers. "After I got back from the studio, the phone was ringing… I didn't know she-"

"Jesus. Okay." Llewyn passed his palm against his forehead, running his fingers through his hair. _It's been years… and the guy still hasn't managed to drown out his demons._ The problem was that Mike was too damn _nice._ Though he cloaked his true nature in off-color jokes and garrulous public activity, he'd still give a man the clothes off his back if it looked like the man needed it. And no matter how badly he might detest or resent a person who was once close to him, he couldn't let himself cut ties with them entirely. Like his mother. _Like me._

"I don't get it, Mike. Why do you care so much about what she thinks? I doubt my sister would care less if I were playing sold-out shows or starving on the street." Despite his words, a faint twinge went through Llewyn, because that wasn't fair to Joy. Though she'd never really understood her younger brother, her tacit show of support went a long way. _You'd probably like her, Mike, if you met her…_ But because she chose to lead an insipid existence, a slave to suburban daydreams, she wasn't free from criticism.

"Her approval isn't important," Llewyn continued. "It shouldn't have to be. You don't owe anybody _anything_. If you're happy playing these songs, making this record, then you're happy, period."

Mike just stared at Llewyn, as if unable to let the words compute. Or perhaps that was _unwilling._ He stabbed at his food, barely murmuring loudly enough for Llewyn to hear. "Easier said than done."

Such cryptic statements were Mike's favorite way of ending a discussion before it turned too sour. Sometimes they made Llewyn want to bash his head against the wall that Mike sunk behind, but tonight he decided to leave the subject untouched. He got up to dump his plate in the sink, before heading back over to the couch and his guitar.

On rare nights in, when Llewyn had no immediate plans of which to speak, practicing was a reliable fallback. He and Mike had worked on music until their fingers bled and their throats were raw, but playing solo, Llewyn revitalized the repertoire. It wasn't long after he sat down that Mike got up start the dishes. The sound of running water blended into the background as Llewyn's guitar lulled him into a dream.

 _Green, green rocky road… Tell me who you love…_

Strange how such nonsensical lyrics could have so much resonance, sometimes. Strange that Llewyn could play this song forever, and it was still his unquestionable favorite.

After a while, Llewyn emerged from his head to find the water still running, with a growing urge for a cigarette. Replacing the pick in his hand with a 20-pack, he got to his feet. "Gonna go smoke, okay, Mikey?"

A faint "Okay" was enough to send Llewyn out the door. Even though February was still waging a cold war upon the city, Llewyn figured Mike deserved the momentary peace. At least they were only on the second floor- and at least he had his winter coat.

The water was still running when Llewyn returned. Mike hadn't budged an inch. Llewyn raised his eyebrows as he made his way to his friend's side, eyeing the steam rising from the sink. "Come on, Mikey, don't waste all the water-"

He cut himself off, sucking a harsh breath through his teeth. Mike's bare hands were bright red as he mindlessly scrubbed a bowl from earlier that morning.

"What do you think you're doing?" The words came out more sharply than Llewyn had intended. He shoved the hot water knob to the side to turn it off, and at last Mike let go of the sponge. He flexed his fingers and winced, as if suddenly realizing that he was in pain.

" _Ow._ Fuck. I… must have forgotten the gloves…"

Llewyn grunted wordlessly as he turned on the cold-water tap. Reaching under the tap, he recoiled immediately. The water was still burning hot.

"Jesus, Mike, you could have burned your skin off." The mental image was so unsavory that Llewyn banished it from his brain.

"Guess I was daydreaming," Mike murmured, though the tone of his voice suggested the dreams had been less than idyllic. Llewyn just sighed as he tested the water again. For someone who was usually so knowledgeable, Mike could have the most infuriating lapses of common sense.

By this time, the water was no longer hot, so Llewyn motioned Mike forward. Mechanically, Mike thrust his hands under the water, shutting off the tap after a few seconds. But his skin still pulsed with red, and though Llewyn tried not to show it, his concern increased.

"Let me see…" He reached for Mike's hand. Mike didn't resist as Llewyn grabbed his hand and began to examine his palm. He ran his thumb over the lines in Mike's skin, watching the veins throb beneath, and tried not to read too much into the absurd pleasure that flushed over him.

 _It's okay… It's just a physical exam…_

 _Llewyn coughed and muttered in the most off-handed tone he could manage,_ "You ought to learn to take care of yourself." But damn him, his eyes remained fixed on Mike's smooth skin, comfortably warm in his grip. _No._ This couldn't happen. He couldn't _let_ this happen… not if he wanted to stay under Mike's roof…

Llewyn started to let go, but Mike made a fist, which Llewyn found himself cradling.

"'Cause no one else will, right?" Mike said quietly. Llewyn blinked, trying to drag his gaze away, knowing that they'd been standing here for too long already… but he couldn't force himself to move. Though Mike had turned the water off, the faucet dripped slowly, and each droplet that landed on the metal interior resounded like the beat of a drum. Or of a heart.

"That's not true." Feeling more self-conscious than he ever had in his life, Llewyn lifted his gaze to Mike's face. Mike stared back at him, not smiling, but _smoldering._ Intensely peering from his mouth to his eyes.

"There's… at least one person, who…"

He wasn't sure who leaned in first, but when his lips met with Mike's all Llewyn could feel at first was pure ecstasy. _Oh, thank god, thank god he shut me up…_ He dropped Mike's hand and moved forward, pushing Mike against the corner of the sink. Mike's eyes filled his field of vision, a blue abyss that Llewyn was liable to drown in. His lips tasted of chicken and green beans, not exactly the most _romantic_ imagery, but…

But _whatever._

Llewyn was almost sorry when Mike pushed him away. Partly sorry, partly relieved because where would it have led if it went on, and overall, utterly shaken. He stepped back, unsure of what to say or do and unable to look anywhere but into Mike's eyes.

Then Mike grabbed Llewyn's wrist and pulled him close. The second kiss was better than the first. It was slower, less electrifying but easier, now that Llewyn knew what was coming. He hesitantly reached up to touch Mike's face, grazing his cheek with his fingers for just a second. Only by closing his eyes could he make himself believe that this was really happening.

 _Yeah, and it took you long enough._

Where _would_ this lead? For the life of him, Llewyn had no idea, and was in fact terrified of all prospects. What had been buried the year before, stalled and frozen when Llewyn hooked up with Diane, was now out in the open, spoken plainly without using words. Where could they possibly go from here?

 _Well… only one way to find out._ And that was to surrender.


	3. Chapter 3

It hurt. He'd known it was going to, because he'd never done it before. And because Mike had told him it would. Still, bracing himself for what he was expecting did little to help.

"Oh, _fuck…_ fuck…"

"Are you okay?" Even in a whisper, Mike's voice rolled through Llewyn. He caught his breath, willing the world to re-focus around him. "Yeah… yeah, 'm fine."

A tinge of worry colored Mike's voice. "We can stop now if you-"

 _"No."_ Llewyn could have shaken his head at the irony, because that was _his_ line, _his_ words in Mike's mouth. No one had ever used it on _him_ before. It was vital to cut Mike off before he killed the mood entirely.

Still, Mike followed up with a breathless, "Are you s-"

 _"Yes!"_ Llewyn's adamant demand resumed the activity, and he clutched uselessly at the bedcovers, groaning. It still hurt, hurt like hell, and he had half a mind to swear at Mike and yell at him _wait,_ wait, he didn't want to continue after all… _Why'd he have to be so fuckin'…_ But at the same time, he'd never wanted it more.

Hours later, the morning's harsh sunlight woke Llewyn. He pulled the nearest pillow over his head. "Ugh…" Everything was glaringly white, from the bare walls to the bedsheets in which he was tangled.

Though the pillow muffled his hearing, Mike's voice tickled Llewyn's ears, both contemplative and mildly amused. "Did you know that you talk in your sleep?"

Llewyn rolled onto his side and stared into Mike's beaming face. His head was pillowed on his arm, as bare as the rest of him. His ginger hair was utterly tousled, and his grin stretched from ear to ear.

A jolt went through Llewyn.

"Huh? What'd I say?"

"Not much." Mike shrugged horizontally, his shoulder hitting his cheek. "Not much that I could understand. You should tell your subconscious to take a course on diction."

Llewyn only gazed blankly, before lifting the pillow and moving onto his back. "Ahh…" His head swam with a strange heaviness, and his muscles ached. Par for the course for the morning after, but something felt… off. The fresh morning air tiptoed around him, raising goosebumps against his flesh. Angling his head, Llewyn noticed that Mike had opened the window, and was puzzled. Mike wasn't a smoker, and in the city, early March wasn't the best time to let in the breeze. _In like a lion this year, for sure._

He sat up and plunged his face into his hands, running his fingers through his hair. Mike was invisible as he spoke. "You okay?"

"Uh… yeah." Llewyn dropped his hands and stared at the half-cracked blinds, trying not to look down at himself, at Mike's pale arm lying beside him. "Yeah, I… I'm fine." The walls seemed to enclose Llewyn like a cocoon. He felt oddly small, sitting in bed beside the man who'd just fucked him like some woman the night before.

Greenwich Village had its fair share of those who _pursued an alternate lifestyle_ , as Llewyn had once heard it put so euphemistically. Yet he had never thought of Mike as belonging with them. Not even after they'd kissed for the first time. Mike was… _Mike,_ a friend and partner. And as for himself… Llewyn didn't like to label it. He liked when women wrapped their arms around his neck and whispered in his ear, and he liked to look at men- in onscreen motion, on billboards throughout the city, or spread across the glossy pages of a magazine. He'd even done a few things with men, if he was hard-pressed to admit it, and liked that too, not that it had _meant_ anything. Most of all… he liked _Mike._

But now, after almost a month of furtive, fleeting kisses, of falling asleep beside each other when one or the other was dead tired and _occasionally_ fooling around… Even though they'd talked about it extensively before doing it, Llewyn now felt he'd crossed a line, one which he could never again step back over.

He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, before letting it out with his words. "We… we can't do that again."

Mike raised his head, looking perplexed. "What?" He rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows. Llewyn didn't want to see, but he looked anyway, watching out of the corner of his eye as the sheet fell away to expose Mike's chest.

"I mean… what we did last night…" It was torture trying to draw the words out, like reeling in a fishing catch that seemed to grow bigger every second. It made Llewyn want to smack himself in the face, in hopes that the jolt would jog his muddled brain. "That can't happen… again, okay? It's just… something's off. It doesn't feel right."

"What are you saying?" Mike pulled himself up into a sitting position, patting down his mussed-up hair and eyeing Llewyn dubiously. "You didn't enjoy it?"

"Of course I enjoyed it," Llewyn murmured. _Every filthy second of it._

Mike drew in a deep breath. "You think that what we did… who I am… You think it was _wrong?"_

" _No,_ no." Llewyn shook his head, but he couldn't bring himself to look Mike in the eye. "You're… you're not _wrong,_ Mike, you're a great guy… probably one of the best guys. No, _definitely_ one of the best guys. It's just…" He sighed and swallowed, waiting for the right words to come. However, they decided not to pay him a visit, so he continued falteringly. "Look, we're _partners,_ right? We sing together, we play together, we record together… I don't want stuff we do here-" he indicated the bedroom- "to get in the way of the stuff we do out there." He gestured to the open window, and Mike tracked his hand's movement with his eyes. A slight frown appeared on his lips. Llewyn could almost hear his unspoken question. _Nearly a month, and you're putting your foot down NOW?_

"Come on, Llewyn," Mike said halfheartedly. "It doesn't have to be like that. You and I, we've been best friends for so long. Nothing's changed that. Not the career, or the…" He trailed off, apparently at a loss for how to finish the statement. Llewyn would have laughed if he could. _Can't even bring yourself to say it._

"So we're best friends. Best friends who rent an apartment together, sleep in the same bed, make out and fuck sometimes…"

"Why not?" Mike said, sounding a bit stiff to Llewyn's ears. "You could say the same about every couple we know. Like our parents, for chrissakes. Or Jim and Jean."

This time Llewyn laughed, and the sound brought him back to himself, reminding him that those were _his_ hands, in _his_ lap, and he was sitting in _Mike's_ room. "Jim is not Jean's best friend, I can tell you that." Sometimes, when he caught an affectionate, alluring glance from Jean in the audience, or from a few seats down at the bar, he doubted that they were even lovers.

He chose not to focus on the word Mike had used- _couple._ Decided not to point out that it didn't apply to them.

The silence stretched between them. Llewyn again raised a hand to sweep back his curls, as if Mike actually minded his bedhead. They'd seen each other in much worse states before. So why did he feel so self-conscious now? Why was he so uncomfortable sitting here naked in his friend's bed, as if the eyes of the world were upon him? Why, if he had enjoyed it, was his stomach knotted with shame just thinking about what they had done?

 _Thought Mike grew up in a religious household. He's the one who should feel guilty, dammit, not me._

Eyes still fastened to the window, Llewyn sighed and said, "I don't think this is… for us."

"The sex?" Mike replied, uncertainty curving his voice upwards. "Or… all of this?" He gestured vaguely about himself, as if to indicate the room, the apartment- _everything_ that connected him and Llewyn.

"The sex," Llewyn mumbled. And thank God it was only that. Thank God they still had the apartment, and the music, and the _kissing,_ and whatever else. He floundered for a moment with what to tell Mike, before finally deciding to spit it out. "I… I'm glad it happened, okay? I just… don't know if it'll happen again. If it _can_ happen again. I just- I guess I like you too much to reduce you- to reduce _us-_ to… to this."

At first he was afraid that he'd been too open, that Mike was going to recoil. But instead, Mike just snorted and wrapped an arm around him. "Right, I forgot you're not exactly one for long term commitment. Love 'em and leave 'em, Llewyn Davis style." His warmth spread through Llewyn, from the center of his chest to the tips of his toes. Despite all that he had said, he found himself leaning into Mike's touch.

"Hey, what do you mean I'm not one for commitment?" he murmured. "Who else would have stuck around with you for… what, five years now, am I right?"

"Give or take a few," Mike shrugged. Without warning, he pulled Llewyn backwards onto the bed and flopped down next to him, kissing his cheek. "That's real cute. And the award for having put up with this bullshit much longer than necessary goes to…"

His eyes closed, Llewyn figured he'd be able to put up with Mike's "bullshit" forever. Or at least for long enough.


	4. Chapter 4

_Cracking his eyes open, Llewyn sees his partner standing at the edge of the stage, the spotlight turning him into a silhouette. As he strikes the first few notes on his mandolin, his body contorts, moving jerkily yet fluidly to the rhythm. Despite how ridiculous he looks, it's a sight that brings a grin to Llewyn's face. He doesn't even care how many are watching down below. Here inside the song, all is peace. All is well._

 _"I remember one evening in the pouring rain, and in my heart was an aching pain. Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well."_

 _With that, Mike whips into the solo, and every chiming note uplifts Llewyn, spiriting him away to what he'll never describe as a higher power. But perhaps it's close enough._

* * *

In Llewyn's drunken state, it was a miracle he reached the correct floor of his building, let alone located his apartment number. The trip home had been an unmentionable blur. Llewyn wasn't sure if he'd taken the subway or a cab, or if anyone had accompanied him. Frankly, he wasn't in the mood to ask questions. All that currently concerned him was getting into the apartment before hurling or blacking out.

The key slid into the lock on the third try. With a groan, Llewyn staggered inside. At first he thought it best to head for the bathroom, but his knees started to buckle, forcing him to hastily weave his way to the couch. There he sat, panting, as the room tilted around him.

Over his right shoulder, a distinctive voice called his name. "Llewyn?"

"Huh?" Disgruntled, Llewyn glanced up to see Mike coming towards him. Worry had saturated his voice, but the moment his gaze fell on Llewyn, frostiness hardened his expression. Llewyn wasn't sure if the cold chill in Mike's eyes was due to anger or disappointment. Or if he wanted to find out.

"God _damn_." Mike peered into Llewyn's eyes as he lowered himself onto the couch, his nose wrinkling. "Where've _you_ been all night?"

Valiantly Llewyn tried to conjure up a solid answer, but the names of people and places were all fading into one long, continuous moment. All he had to go on were fragmentary flashes of faces, objects. He shrugged, hands in the air. "Bathroom. Blonde…"

 _"Blonde?"_

Llewyn nodded emphatically, the word unburying memories like a pickaxe striking gold. "Christ, Mikey, you should have seen her…" Or felt her, as Llewyn had, in one of the bathroom stalls of a shitty little dive where music drifted through the crack under the door. It was flooding back now- her trembling body, her urgent begs…

"I…" Mike's body tensed, as if he was readying to hit something, but all he did was sigh heavily. "You didn't do anything, right? I mean, after that Diane debacle…"

 _Diane._ Now it was Llewyn's turn to tense up. "Hey, it's _fine."_ _He hoped he sounded convincingly reassuring._ "We didn't go all the way, just…" _Just far enough._

In Llewyn's intoxication, the apartment's lighting was too bright, and his head began to throb. Though alcohol usually made Llewyn more receptive to touch, Mike's closeness was nigh unbearable. Warmth rolled off him, his bare skin only inches away. Too much bare skin. _What's he wearing that undershirt for, it's December…_ and the heating was minimal at best…

As if sharing Llewyn's pain, Mike reached up to rub his temples. "Why'd you… why didn't you call me?"

The bizarre notion didn't compute in Llewyn's brain. "Why _would_ I have called you? You disappointed that you missed all the action?"

 _"No."_ Mike's hands fell into his lap. "I just thought-" He broke off, smirking sardonically. "Doesn't matter. You can take care of yourself, right? 'Cause no one else'll do it for you."

Llewyn frowned, Mike's words piercing through the alcoholic haze like a lightning bolt. Something about his statement seemed achingly familiar… but what was it…

"You shouldn't worry about me," he said, his voice falling like the clang of a hammer on an anvil. "That's not your goddamn job. I don't butt my head into _your_ business, do I?"

Mike swallowed, but he didn't refute the point, likely because it was true. Nonetheless, frustration etched across his face and seeped into his voice, soft though it remained. "Of course it's not my _job,_ but when you stay out so long and don't tell me where you went or if you're even going to come back, you sure don't make it easy for me."

"You shouldn't _have_ to-" Llewyn cut himself off as the room blurred out of focus. Resting his hands on his knees, he tried vainly to recollect his scattered thoughts. All he found was a perplexing, simmering anger. He wasn't sure as to its source, until his gaze focused on Mike's hardened features. The heat in his belly congealed into disgust. What the fuck was Mike's _deal?_ Why in the world did he care so much about Llewyn's after-hours activity? _Too sinful for you, eh, Mikey? Afraid I'm being led into temptation?_

"I mean… what do you even get out of living like that, Llew?" Mike suddenly announced.

"Like _what?"_ Llewyn breathed, trying to settle his churning stomach and aching head. Mike's nearby presence did nothing to alleviate either ailment.

"Just… the way you do." Mike waved his hand to emphasize the point, and Llewyn thought he'd never seen something more pathetic. "You spend all your nights off going out to make it with some random chick you'll never seen again. Then you come back here plastered and by the morning, you don't even remember what happened."

Llewyn startled himself by laughing, which only made his stomach feel worse.

"God, don't go moralizing on me! I'm no Puritan, Mikey! Nothing's stopping me from living like that!" _Not even YOU._

"Like I give a fuck about morality?" The sardonic smirk returned to Mike's face. "Let's face it, Llewyn, if you had an immortal soul it's been lost a long time ago. Probably took off to join mine."

Bafflement rose in Llewyn, momentarily drowning out the anger. "Then what's your _problem?"_

Mike blinked nonchalantly, tapping his fingers against the back of his hand. "Just… strikes me as strange, that's all."

A dart of irritation shot through Llewyn. "Get to the _point_ , Mike. _What's_ strange?"

"I don't know." Carefully, Mike got up from his seat, leaving Llewyn swaying with relief. But that relief was soon quashed with Mike's next words.

"Seems like you only go out after we've hooked up." Mike folded his arms and stared Llewyn down, stone-faced. "Like you're trying to prove yourself."

The floor seemed to drop out from under Llewyn. It took several panicked seconds for him to realize it was only in his imagination. He stared emptily, blankly, not wanting to dignify the accusation with a response or even able to find the words for one. But eventually, the words clawed weakly to the front of his brain and burst onto his tongue. "What, you're _jealous?"_

"No, it's not like _that-"_

 _"Sure_ it's not." Now that the conclusion was taking shape, Llewyn was amazed he hadn't seen it before. "You want me all to yourself, is that it? You're mad because I don't sleep with you anymore." Though they'd only done it the one time- or was it a handful of times? _Doesn't matter. It won't happen again._

"Fucking _hell_ , Llew!" Mike abruptly exploded. "It's not about jealousy. It's about how you treat people. Like- like these fucking _mixed messages_ of yours. First you're into me, then the next thing I know you've got some woman's tongue down your throat! And you come out here in the morning like the whole thing never happened, like you'll probably-"

"Hey, hey, _hey!"_ Llewyn blurted, cutting Mike off. Neither the feeling in his head nor his stomach had abated, and both were unpleasantly competing for his attention. It took all his strength not to drop out of the conversation entirely. "Look, Mike, I- I'm _tired_ , 'n' I got a major headache, and… would you just- can you _lay off_ for now?"

Mike just shook his head, devoid of words. Standing before Llewyn, he didn't resemble the towering musician who dominated nightclubs with his unspoken charisma. He wasn't the friend of whose company Llewyn could never get enough. With his shoulders slumped and his eyes wide, every emotion spilling across their surface, Mike seemed… _small_. Defeated. All that had mesmerized Llewyn and attracted him initially had vanished. The same disgust that Llewyn had felt stole over him once more, but this time it was, in a way, bittersweet.

 _We shouldn't have let it get this far. Shouldn't have mixed business and pleasure._

"I fucking wish I could," Mike murmured. "But y'know, I'm tired too. Tired of avoiding this. I want to hear your explanation."

"Explanation?" Llewyn repeated dumbly. "For what?"

"Well, to begin with… for why you refuse to admit we've ever slept together, but you'll go chasing down the first woman you see." Mike sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I mean… I get it, I don't expect you run around telling everyone we're together. I never even told Jean that I-" He swallowed and changed the course of the conversation. "It's just like what you said once. I like you too much, Llewyn. I don't really know how _you_ feel, but for me, I like being with you, and I don't want anything to change what we have. That's the truth, and… I'm sorry."

Gazing upon Mike, Llewyn's vision blurred out for a moment. He welcomed the change, because that meant he wouldn't have to see Mike's devastating eyes, his feelings that he never had been able to hide. Mike's speech deserved a response, but Llewyn couldn't seem to conjure up any words. Memories of the past year swirled within him, of the first time he'd woken with Mike beside him, of the nights they'd walked home together and all the embraces they'd shared…

He wanted it. Maybe not as much as Mike did, but he did want it. Even now, the urge to stand up and kiss Mike, right in the middle of their argument, was overwhelming. Just to see what would happen.

But greater than that urge was the voice in Llewyn's head telling him _no._ Don't proceed. _Don't let it get any farther than it already has_ , because how long could this go on, as partners in music and in private? How long until someone noticed, how long until their world was ruined…

Llewyn found himself shrugging.

"I don't know what to tell you, Mike, I mean, I'm not a fucking fag… That's not how I get my kicks. I'm not gonna just-"

That was as far as he got before the contents of his stomach decided to reemerge. Llewyn bent over, heaving, the vomit stinging his mouth and nose. He covered his ears with his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin.

" _Fuck,_ Llewyn," Llewyn heard Mike say from beneath the protection of his hands. "Jesus Christ." His footsteps retreated from the room, and Llewyn rejoiced for the momentary privacy. All the former pleasantness of the alcoholic buzz had worn off. Now he only felt like the gum on the bottom of a shoe, waiting to be scraped off.

Mike returned to clean up the mess, with Llewyn watching as if in a trance. He felt as if he should reach out to touch Mike, or at least try to _say_ something, but no muscle moved at his will. Soundlessly, Mike left the room, without a single glance towards Llewyn. Eventually, once the world had stopped spinning, Llewyn hauled himself to his feet and made for the bathroom to wash up.

When Llewyn came out of the bathroom, there was no sign of Mike. Well… that was no great loss. Llewyn flopped down on the couch and promptly passed out.

He didn't realize until the next morning that Mike hadn't just left the room. He'd fled the apartment altogether.


	5. Chapter 5

Winter visited New York as suddenly as it had the previous year, creeping up on tiptoes before pouncing. In no time, a stark, enduring chill had taken up residence in the city. For once Llewyn actually appreciated the packed crowd on the subway, filling up the tight space with their body heat. These frigid months were always the worst, so quick to set in and so difficult to shake off.

Sharing the enclosed space with so many people did have its downsides. In a couple of days, Llewyn had come down with a sore, scratchy throat and an unpleasant tightness in his chest that wasn't relieved no matter how often he coughed. He took extra care to wind his scarf securely around his neck, and even attempted to cut back on his cigarette intake, though that resolution was blown almost immediately. Still, the illness refused to leave, and singing only made it worse. _Just my fucking luck…_

 __He took the subway back to his and Mike's apartment- well, _his_ apartment now, as far as Mike was concerned. The night of Mike's disappearance was still murky in Llewyn's memory, but he knew well enough that Mike wasn't intent on coming back. Whatever Llewyn had said or done had ended their living situation. _Why does it always turn out this way?_ Again and again, the same mistakes. Again and again, Llewyn shouldered the blame.

Mike had shown up eventually, turning up asleep on the sofa when Llewyn entered the apartment one afternoon. Relief swelled in Llewyn's chest, so strongly that it scared him. _Mike, oh God, I'm sorry I said all that shit, whatever it was, I don't want to…_ He'd rushed forward, but halted as Mike moved slightly in his sleep. The least he could was let Mike rest. Whatever apologies were necessary could wait for later that night, at the show. _Came back just in the nick of time._

At the Gaslight, something about Mike was meeker. Emptier. Unresponsive, in a way Llewyn was familiar with, but... _different,_ all the same. Hardly a word was exchanged before it was time to hop onstage, and by the time Llewyn got off the stage, Mike had taken off again. Two days had passed since, and still no sign of him.

Llewyn tried not to dwell on the fact as he made his way down the street, hands in his pockets and collar turned up. Mike would come back when he came back. He wasn't the type to up and leave without a reasonable explanation. Sure, he wandered sometimes, but… _Not all who wander are lost. Where'd I hear that one before…_

The brisk wind numbed Llewyn's face and made his eyes water. By the time he reached the comforts of his apartment, he was shivering inside his coat.

"I'm back," he croaked out to the empty room, even though he knew that no one was around to answer. Sure enough, only silence resounded. Shrugging off his coat and winter garments, Llewyn tumbled onto the couch and lay there, his body tensing as he coughed. The best thing to do was make some tea, or maybe coffee, but he wasn't sure if there was any about the house. At any rate, it was worth taking a look…

Then the phone rang. Llewyn sat up and stared, wondering who the hell would be calling him at this time, this place. Then he remembered Mike's absence, and padded over to snatch up the phone.

"Hello?" The word rasped in his throat, and Llewyn swallowed hard, suppressing the urge to cough. The other end of the line remained silent. _What the hell?_ Maybe he hadn't spoken loud enough.

"Who is thi-"

"LLEWYN!" wailed a familiar voice, knocking Llewyn off-guard. _Lillian?_ He listened in utter bafflement as Lillian choked out her words between heavy sobs.

"Oh god, Llewyn, tell me it's not true… _tell me he didn't…"_

"Did what? Who are you talking about?" Llewyn's voice came out clogged with congestion, and he cleared his throat and swallowed again before attempting to bring Lillian out of her hysteria. "Hey, _hey,_ calm down. What- what's going on?"

"Oh _God,"_ Lillian blurted, seemingly stricken with horror. "You're crying. It _mus_ t be true. Oh, my _God…"_

"No, I- _what?"_ Llewyn broke off to cough, still bewildered. "What's true?"

"About _MIKE!"_ Lillian dissolved into a fresh round of tears. "They're saying they found Mike in the Hudson… they're saying he _jumped…_ oh _God,_ Llewyn, it can't be…"

Every part of Llewyn froze. The sound of Lillian's weeping faded out, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel instead of a phone receiver. For several long moments, he felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room _,_ leaving behind a vacuum. His lips moved but nothing came out, not even a cough.

Then, just like that, the air came rushing back, along with his hearing. Llewyn clenched the phone in a steel grip. "What. _What."_ It seemed all he could say. " _What?"_

Lillian's voice sounded distant again, but this time another voice joined hers.

"I don't- think he _knew…"_

"Shh." It was Mitch, calming his wife. "It's okay, Lillian. Better that he found out now, instead of…"

Llewyn could only listen, unresponsive and uncomprehending. Then he concentrated all his senses on a single shout. "What the _fuck?!"_

 _My partner… goes and… and I have to hear about it first from Lillian Gorfein?!_

"What the fuck. You've gotta be kidding me." He was breathing too quickly, almost wheezing at this point, but physical ailments were the least of his concerns. "You have _got_ to be _fucking kidding me."_


	6. Chapter 6

_Coming out of the solo is difficult, always. He'd rather listen to his partner play forever. But at the same time, long instrumental passages are tedious for an audience, and Llewyn's anxious to get back to the singing anyway. He and Mike breathe as one, and maybe it's his imagination, but he's pretty sure the audience is breathing with them._

 _"Muddy river is muddy and wild. Can't give a bloody for my unborn child."_

 _Songs don't quarrel or hold grudges. For the first time in weeks, Llewyn feels connected to Mike, all their built-up animosity dissipating. He's not alone now. A single performance has united them, mended whatever fractures their friendship has suffered._

 _Who knows if it'll last when they leave the stage. Llewyn isn't sure he wants it to. This is a sacred moment, and he can't let the pitfalls of daily life tarnish it._

 _"Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well."_

* * *

The intervening weeks between the moment the news had broken, and the funeral, were a mind-melting blur of endless questions. Numbness followed the initial shock. Llewyn watched dispassionately as faces contorted and crumbled upon hearing of Mike's fate, and stood like a rock when some chanced to hug him and murmur their condolences. Afterwards, he could never be sure if any of it had actually happened, or if he'd dreamed it all up.

It wasn't until much later that Llewyn broke down. Once he'd set foot outside the threshold of his dingy apartment, the place where he and Mike had made a home, he didn't look back. For days he'd bounced from apartment to apartment, staying just long enough to realize that the look in his hosts' eyes was blind, meaningless sympathy and not genuine concern. Or better yet, no concern at all. He'd have preferred a blank stare from someone who hadn't heard the news (although who in his circle hadn't heard the news by now?), than an attempt at comfort or, for God's sake, _pity_ from someone in the know.

In the end, it was too tiresome to keep himself from exploding, while at the same time fighting for his head to stay above the incoming black wave. So Llewyn trudged back to his own apartment, now a little quieter, ready to tear the place apart. There had to be some clue, some sign, some _answer_ that would shift the accusatory finger away from him, like a magnet affecting a compass's needle.

His first mistake was to enter the apartment stone sober. His second was to start with the record collection. His third was to actually _play_ the record, setting the needle down as if ready to pore over every note, every line, every crackle and hiss from the grooves.

Then the first track came on and destroyed him.

"If I had wings, like Noah's dove, I'd fly up the river to the one I love…"

 _Shit. Fuck no. No, no, no…_

It was all _there,_ cleverly concealed in the song, but _there_ for those who were searching. The river at the gates of death. That cold, bitter evening. A man who stood long and tall, towering above his peers.

The pain. The aching, throbbing pain.

Mike's voice on the record embraced his, enclosing each word in a message sealed with a kiss. Just the way his arms had once embraced Llewyn. The harmonies were two pieces of a puzzle, fitting together in an auditory _pas de deux._

But now Llewyn could only embrace himself, all huddled up by the turntable trying to keep himself from splitting right down the middle. Now he was singing solo.

His hands were shaking, his shoulders were shaking… his whole body was shaking. Shaking all over. Collapsing beneath the song's weight.

 _Fuck…_

It hurt.

Hurt so much.

Although he wasn't sure why he'd expected anything less.

He'd come looking for answers, and received too many. Though unbeknownst to him when recording, the song was Mike's suicide note.


	7. Chapter 7

_"So show us a bird flying high above…"_

 _Here it comes. His favorite line in the entire song, although he can't say why. He only knows that he feels like he's been flipped inside out when he sings it, that Mike's voice on the high harmony gives him chills._

 _"Life ain't worth living without the one you love. Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well."_

 _Llewyn finally opens his eyes all the way as the song ends with a strum of the guitar and two raw voices. All he can see for a moment is the light, spilling out around him._

 _"Fare thee well, my honey… fare thee well."_

 _Illuminated at the center, Mike turns his head, an indescribable expression on his face. If Llewyn weren't sitting down, the darkness in Mike's eyes might knock him to the floor. He's smiling, but his eyes desperately search Llewyn's face, waiting for some kind of hidden cue. For just a single second, he looks as if he's saying goodbye._

 _Then he returns to the mic with a simple word. "Thanks."_

 _The applause is tremendous._

* * *

"Hey, I know you," said the man at the bar. "Didn't you used to play around these parts?"

Teetering on the edge of tipsiness and full-blown intoxication, Llewyn was more than happy to pick a fight. His sense told him that this patron wasn't worth it, but his pride wasn't convinced.

" _Used_ to? I still play here, dumbass. Get your fucking facts straight."

Profanity did not deter the man. It didn't always, among Village folks, unlike the some of the straights Llewyn knew uptown. "I haven't seen ya lately. Business not treating you too good?"

Llewyn looked away, down into the murky depths of his glass. He knew he'd had a few too many, so why wasn't he having fun anymore? Why was this guy still bothering him?

"You weren't alone, though," the man continued, ignoring Llewyn's attempt to ignore him. "Didn't you used to work with this other guy? Big tall guy, red hair? Voice like a silver flute. I mean, if you like that kind of thing…" He coughed, and Llewyn gritted his teeth, concentrating all his willpower on not taking his glass and bashing the guy over the head. "Flailed about like a lunatic onstage, especially with that tiny guitar. Whatever happened to him?"

"He was my partner." The words were both flat and acrid, carrying a sour stench. _Now why don't you shut up about him?_

But the man didn't appear to be a mind reader. He reached for Llewyn's arm, and Llewyn's entire body tensed. " _Was?_ Why'd you drop him? Turn out to be an asshole or something?"

At that, Llewyn's willpower crumbled. He spun around, fixing the man with his sharpest glare.

"Yeah, he was a real asshole all right. Went and jumped off a bridge to solve his problems. Now who the hell does that?" His voice was rising, and he slid off the barstool onto his feet. "That's _bullshit,_ man. You don't solve _anything_ by doing that. You just get yourself shipped off to some nice pine condo six feet in the ground, where you don't have to worry about what's going on above you. You just lie there until you rot away." He slammed his fist on the counter and advanced towards the man. " _I_ didn't drop him. _He_ dropped out on _me."_

Soon Llewyn was asked to leave the premises, which was the nicest way he'd ever heard of saying _kicked out._ It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last.


End file.
